


The Storm of Spring

by OropherionFANatic



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Fourth Age, M/M, Passion, Sorrow turns to passion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:44:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3935575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OropherionFANatic/pseuds/OropherionFANatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Age of Elves has passed, the Age of Men has come. Evil is no longer a threat in the new world, but sorrow still prevails in the hearts of two of Arda's remaining Eldar. Thranduil Oropherion has lived through ages of fear and hardship, and now with his son gone - how can his heart be free when it feels as if he's won nothing? But Galion is there to comfort him, as he always has been. Loyalty and love has kept the butler by his king's side for ages; not even the call of the sea could pull him away.</p><p>Rated E for some graphic sexual content, just in case. </p><p>((Hey all! I know I've gone for a LONG time. I mean, like an age. I know many of you are anticipating more chapters in my "A King and a Butler" story, but it's been so long that I've had time to think over it. I'm just starting to get over my writer's block and I might have to re-work that story before I'm happy. In the meantime, enjoy this new one-shot of my favorite LotR ship. Hope you enjoy! And constructive criticism is always welcome. :) ))</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Storm of Spring

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Characters, names, and any book references belong to Tolkien, the greatest mastermind of them all! I am only a lowly writer, borrowing the beauty that came from his mind.

The hour was yet early in the day when he entered his Lord’s rooms, but the light from the window was minimal and cold as the rain that fell beyond it. A fire still crackled low within the grand hearth in the receiving chamber, yet even its amber glow could not chase the shadows that creeped like spiders from the cracks in the sculpted stone. Scrolls sat unused on a corner desk, collecting dust and not attention; an empty wine decanter twinkled eerily like an early morning star from its resting place on an end table. A slight draft wafted from the open door and stirred papers, books, caressed a tapestry that hung like a solemn sentry on the far wall; yet all was quiet, except for the unceasing hum of water striking a million fluttering leaves. 

He saw him there, in the same spot he had been many times before. A bench below the window, carved in the likeness of twisting and swirling vines peppered with the delicate flowers of spring; on it he sat, with on leg bent and tucked before him, the other hanging limply down to graze the floor with a doeskin boot. One arm was wrapped around his knee, the other resting open the window sill. His back melded against the right side of the small alcove, robes pinched and worried and given not a care for their state. His golden hair was like a waterfall of wheat that cascaded down his front, unbraided and crownless; his head leaned back against the cold stone. And his eyes, oh, those starlit and crystal cut eyes, as pale and exquisite as aquamarine gems – they were open, unblinking, staring unfocusedly out the open panes. Those eyes had seen thousands of years of wonders and horrors, things that storybooks could only reiterate in miniscule fashion when it came to the complexity and emotion of the moment – but in this moment, the moment when the sky was dark and the world was blanketed in melancholy gray, well – those eyes saw something that no one else could. 

Galion paused after he closed the door behind him, sliding the wood into place ever so slightly so that the locks would not make a sound. These moments were becoming frequent for his king. Many were the days that the butler would enter his Lord’s chambers, only to see a scene similarly sullen. Some may have thought it odd for a king to lose himself in the mist of the world when the darkness was vanquished and the shadows receded – but Galion knew Thranduil unlike many others, knew him even more intimately than his own father had. Thranduil was an old creature of dust and starlight. He was immortal – as all of the Eldar, yes. But Thranduil differed in a way that others could not understand. He had seen much and been privy to hurts that would have made a lesser soul cringe. He cared deeply for the life around him, be it his people or the forest that he walked amongst from day to day. He was a god among their kind, wise, ancient, and undying. But his world could not last forever, evil or peace prevailing. His world was destined to die, but he was not. 

The pallor of his fëa was clear even to Galion, who stood across the room. Evil was gone, peace was come, the Age of Men had dawned. But with the coming of man came the leaving of the elves, and this was a heavy weight upon his lord’s shoulders. One could not be witness to a world seven thousand years in the making and then toss it away with nary a blink of the eye. 

And long had it been, for both of them. They had witnessed both peace and war age and age again, had survived slaughters by their own kind and by others, had seen the fire of the silmaril, had come face to face with both Feanor’s children and demons and lived to tell the tale. They had fought in battles and wars and suffered wounds and sicknesses of both body and mind. They had seen the ones they loved die, lights snuffed as easily as the extinguishing of a candle. And for what? For the end of an age, the beginning of a new era, and a new chapter to add to the history books. Men would captivate themselves with the tales of immortal warriors marching into battle side by side and cities hidden in the most beautiful landscapes of Arda; but sooner than later, the memory of everything that was would fade and become nothing but legend – a ghost of what once was, and never would be again. 

And there was the dilemma of his beloved king. He was fading into a ghost, and the sea call did not tempt him as it did others. He was bound to the forest that he sacrificed his blood to; the roots of the oaks and beeches were twisted as tightly around his heart as they were the granite beneath the dirt. He could not sate the sorrows of Middle Earth with the promise of Valinor, not yet – and perhaps not ever. And as time passed more and more of the ones he had treasured left him for the calling of their fëa across the sea. He had never abandoned his people, but they ultimately would abandon him. 

“How long?”

The question, almost as quiet as the breath of a mouse, startled the butler from his thoughtfulness. His fingers became aware of the sensation of fabric clenched between their digits – his fist was buried in his tunic, right above his heart. It hurt. 

Titles were of no concern among them, not any longer. Galion had shared more than words with Thranduil and was perhaps the only one left in Middle Earth who comforted him with the sound of his own name. “Thranduil… I’m sorry, I didn’t – “ 

The regal head turned. The eyes focused. They saw Galion, and they did not shy from his concerned expression. “How long has it been, Galion? So many things have been burned into my memory, and yet this one thing… I cannot recall it. I cannot.” His voice was strained like the voice of once who had spent the night drinking more than sleeping. Once again, the empty wine decanter twinkled in its innocent temptation. 

“What have you forgotten, Hîr vuin? Tell me.” Galion regained his composure, donning a calm and confident expression. Sorrow was not best dealt with sorrow, but with compassion and optimism – this he had come to learn throughout many intimate conversations with his king. He broke the tension of eye contact, allowing Thranduil to confront his own thoughts without the build of expectation, and instead moved to the left to tend to the withering fire. Many years had passed since he had reigned as Eryn Lasgalen’s seneschal. He once oversaw the comfort and order of more than a thousand Sindar and Sylvan inhabitants – now he had less than 100 to care for, and many of those had insisted that there was no longer a need for servants. Nonetheless, one’s purpose was not forgotten after seven thousand years. 

The room remained quiet for the span of five breaths before Galion heard a reply. “The sound of his laughter… the feel of his arms wrapped around me. The way things used to be… they are no longer.” Galion turned, mouth opening to question, but Thranduil had not finished. “Do you know the date, Galion?” 

The dark-haired elf relinquished his grip on a dusty log, letting it fall into the fire with an explosion of a thousand tiny sparks. They reminded him of the stars, if only for a split second. “April, Hîr vuin. April the eighteenth, Fourth Age 412.” And almost as soon as he finished, he knew. 

Legolas.

“He was born on this day, so many years ago; an age ago. My precious son, ionneg…” A pause, a choke of words that thickened in his throat. “My Greenleaf.” Both heads twisted, gazes met once again, and this time they would not turn away. “I cannot forget the day of his birth, or how his sapphire eyes graced me with the deepest sensation of love that I have ever felt in my lifetime. I cannot forget the nights that he spent with me after his mother passed, the way that I would hold him and sing to him as any father would. I can still feel his breath upon my breast, the warmth of it and the slowness, the calmness of it… And I cannot forget the day that I stood on those shores, watching his ship fade into the mist until he was no more than a memory inside my head. But now… now I cannot recall. I have lost the warmth of his embrace and the way that it made my fëa rejoice; I have lost the music of his voice and the innocent joy of his laughter. It has been too long, Galion, and I have forgotten what a father should always hold closest.” His speech ended in a sob, and he brought a hand to his face to momentarily hide the pain manifested there; but then a second later he was composed, a marble statue once again with only eyes that spoke of deepest sorrow. Galion did not miss the trace trail of moisture that had been wiped from his alabaster cheekbone; it lingered like the last droplet of water after a storm. 

There was a time when Galion would have been lost with a resolution. Perhaps he would have stood there, or perhaps he would have backed away and allowed the king his sorrow, fearing for retribution if he dared to intervene. But Thranduil was not the hardened tyrant that many had once thought. He was not cold or soulless, he was not void of the warm blanket of love that seemed so seldom to warm his heart. He had worn the mask of strength for so long to protect his people, and now his people were gone, and his hroa was exhausted from the millennia of evading the inevitable onslaught of tumultuous emotion. He did indeed have a heart, and it was bleeding more than any who had ever suffered a wound. 

Without a word the butler walked forward, allowing his fea to manifest and swirl with warmth and comfort and the blinding love that he felt for this magical creature. He embraced the king on his seat, wrapping his arms tightly around the shoulders broad and hardened by battles untold. He stroked the long silken hair, burying his face into the crook of the king’s neck and encouraging him to do the same. He whispered meaningless comforts, wordless breaths meant to chase away the darkness that still lurked within the deepest reaches of his mind. And he pressed his heart against his beloved’s heart, letting his even rhythm guide the king’s erratic gallop back to tremulous stability. It took only one breath before the tension in the ancient body faded and was replaced by an almost innocent form of grief, causing the warrior’s build to crumple and mold against Galion’s slighter body. This scene was not for any but Galion to witness. This was the king at his truest; this was the Thranduil that had been hidden. Galion wanted this Thranduil. There was no fear in his arms – only trusting love. 

The strong voice, so often able to bring suitors to their knees with a mere command, now trembled with misery. “Two thousand- three hundred -forty three. That is how old my Greenleaf is today. And I am not there to embrace him. I cannot even write him. He is a world away, in a place where I cannot follow.” His warm breath ghosted upon Galion’s shoulder, the moisture of it wetting his tunic. 

“Only now, Thranduil. Only now can you not follow, but this will not last forever. You will hear the call as all others have; you will go home.” His palm kneaded against the knotted muscles of the king’s back, smoothing them out one by one. A spasm caught the king’s breath in his chest. 

“My home?” He pulled back enough to gaze into Galion’s eyes. As always the butler could not withhold a sigh at the intensity of those starlit orbs, aquamarine laced and webbed with sapphire. The pupils were as dark as a starless sky, and just as infinite. “Valinor is not my home, Galion. I am Moriquendi. My ancestors never witnessed the light of the Trees.” The eyes closed tightly and the king worried at his lower lip, a shaky breath tickling the loose hairs that danced around Galion’s collarbone. After a tense pause he willed his expression to slackness, thought the worry and frustration darkened the brightness of his eyes. He continued, “The blood of this forest is my blood, and I am bound to it. You know this. I… I may never hear the call. And if I do, will I be able to listen?” 

_Oh, my king… my beloved king… Hîr vuin._

Galion forced a soft smile upon his lips, gazing endearingly at the one he loved. He moved a lock of hair behind the king’s ear, letting the pads of his fingers rest against the elegant point for only a split second. “All will hear the call, Thranduil, even you. I have faith that you will see your son again. Don’t you?”

Thranduil bowed his head, closing his eyes. “I want to have faith, Galion. But faith never bought me anything more than what my hands could fight for.” He pressed forward, once again burying his cheek in Galion’s acorn-brown hair. His voice changed then, becoming lower, softer, more strained. Afraid. “You have heard the call. I feel it in you, and I see the way you gaze at the western sky. You… you have felt it for years.” Galion felt strong digits climb the muscles of his back and bury themselves into the cotton of his tunic. 

“I have heard it,” he whispered, closing his eyes and breathing in the spice-cedar scent of Thranduil’s hair. He smelled like the sap and pinecones of spring, mixed with the grounding, earthy scent of fresh soil. He was an embodiment of the forest itself. “But I am here. And I am not leaving.” His arms tightened around Thranduil’s shoulders; suddenly he needed this embrace just as much as the king did. 

“But you cannot ignore it forever Galion. I have seen what it does to those who evade it, I have seen the way they fade and distance themselves from the world. You belong in Valinor, not in this empty forest.” 

Galion pulled back then, placing his palms on either side of Thranduil’s face. That skin was moist – had he shed more tears? But it was warm and real and beautiful, and the thrum of his king’s ancient soul hummed beneath his fingertips. It filled him with a warmth and adoration that few in the world could describe. “I belong with you, melethron.” A genuine smile warmed his lips. 

Sorrow was still in Thranduil’s eyes. His chin trembled slightly as he swallowed. “Galion…”  
“Do you remember what I said, Thranduil? Long ago, even before I could release this passion for you. I said that I would serve you with my utmost faith, until my body had completely exhausted itself. And even then I would still remain by your side. I am loyal to you as I always was. And in time I came to realize that my loyalty was only a small part of the love I felt for you. I would have remained with you even if your wife had survived, or if you had taken another lover. I will remain with you even when the call drives me mad. I am bound to you, my king, my golden fox. I love you. And I will never let you be alone.” 

Tears flowed freely now from the king’s aqua eyes. Galion could feel the love that his fëa reciprocated – it bathed him in a golden aura that was as warm as basking in the rays of a summer sun. Forgotten was the storm and cold beyond the window, forgotten was the sea that lay to the west, forgotten was the thousands of years of toil and sorrow and loss. What mattered now was what rested in the present, and that was two souls that had always been connected through the defiance of time itself. Darkness could have never quashed this love born of magic beyond understanding, beyond even the power of the Valar. It was unending and powerful, like the universe that engulfed the stars and moon and all the lights of the sky beyond. It was something indescribable – it simply, was. 

Galion wiped the tears from his king’s cheeks before pulling back, forcing his spine to hold him straight though all he wanted was to meld himself into that warm embrace. He held out a hand to the king, something that would have been unheard of in olden days and ages past. They were as good as equals now, with the kingdom fading into legend and magic receding into the cracks and crevices of the old world soon to be forgotten by the race of man. Titles were only titles, and love transcended all castes. 

“Come, beloved. You have been sitting here too long. Come to bed, and let us forget the world beyond your window.” Thranduil nodded, the corner of his lips twisting upwards only in the slightest, a surrender to the passion he felt inside. He placed his hand, calloused by years of swordplay, into Galion’s hand, calloused from years of servitude. Both were different, and yet never had they been so equal. 

Thranduil rose from the stone seat, his robes falling into place behind him like a silver waterfall and ever slightly brushing against Galion’s shins. They both shivered, but not from the rain or the draft. The window was forgotten as thunder crashed beyond it, for the two elves had no fear of what lay without. There was safety in their love. It was a wall of iron through which no danger could pierce. 

Galion led the king across the receiving chamber and through a door on the far wall. They had walked this path many times now, ever since the two elves had shed their insecurities and embraced love for what it was. The feel of the stone beneath his feet was like the imprint of a memory on his mind.  
Thoughts flooded back to him, reminding him, invigorating him. The first time that they had ever made love had been in this bedchamber, and they had made love many times after. He could still feel the anticipation of that night, the way that his heart had beat like a frightened colt’s. He hadn’t been afraid of the pain or even of Thranduil’s famous temper, no – he could never fear the king, at least wholeheartedly. What had frightened him so strongly back then had been the thought that he was finally being gifted with what he desired most; but that gift would have only been temporary. What if Thranduil tired of him, like a common lover? Or what if he again resurrected the walls that had kept them apart for years, deciding that the love of a monarch and a servant was not worth the risk of gossip and heartbreak? Or perhaps he took Thranduil as a mate, and then lost him in some battle for the protection of his kingdom, of which the importance came before any lover. So many possibilities, so many uncertainties he had. Yet Thranduil had erased his worries with a single kiss; that kiss had spoken more truth than a thousand words. The king had wanted him just as severely, no, he had needed him. They needed each other – and from that moment on, through troubles and turmoil, the king was still his. 

Much had changed since then. Galion was no longer shy and no longer afraid to give Thranduil what he subconsciously needed. Often times the king was in control, just as his title might indicate. He desired a position of power, he craved to feel as if he was the one making decisions and molding the outcome. But he was predisposed to this feeling and wasn’t confident enough to allow himself to let another lead the way. He had been instructed his whole life on how to lead and govern. He had been disciplined for failure and weakness. How was he to trust his heart in the hands of another when a kingdom of a thousand souls was his alone to guard? But Galion had learned that what Thranduil unknowingly craved was a release from both his title and reality, and he had willingly given it to him whenever the need arose. In him the King had planted his complete and everlasting trust. Galion would never abuse it. 

Thranduil’s bedchamber was mastery among the works of architecture. It was wide and cavernous, though the actual walls were hidden beyond an orderly row of carved tree trunks that circled the room in a fashion that created the illusion of a real forest. Their leafy boughs, coated with the growth of real cave moss, disappeared into the cathedral ceiling that twinkled with the lights of glow worms. The sounds of trickling water filled the chamber with a comforting hum, for on the far wall a natural spring flowed and pooled in a basin of worn river stones. High windows on the forest side of the chamber offered light on sunny days to the pseudo flowers carved into the stone; a high hearth would offer warmth, but it was void of flame from a lack of tending. The chamber was exceedingly natural, but it was not without the comfort and decoration of a king. Tapestries covered the walls that were not filled with bas relief and woven rugs of vibrant designs covered the stone floor. Three sofas were arranged in a group around the hearth with a low table among them, a vase of lavender blooms situated in the center. Chairs and shelves dotted the exterior of the room; armor and weapon displays hung from the stone tree fronts. On the opposite side from the doorway sprawled a bed fit for a king and five others, covered by a canopy of burgundy velvet. The sheets and blankets were haphazardly tossed across the feather mattress, for Galion had not made the bed that day. Some days he left it alone, if only to see the imprints where he and his king had lain the night before. 

Towards the bed he pulled Thranduil, though the king needed no urging. The light was dim in the chamber due to the roiling storm outside the windows, but it was enough to see the need upon each of their faces. 

Galion stopped at the bedside, releasing the king’s hand only to light a candelabrum on the adjacent table. The space was instantly filled with a warm amber glow. It was comforting – just what Thranduil needed. 

Thranduil’s hands were fumbling at the clasp of his outer robes when Galion turned back. Galion quickly reached out and covered those hands with his own, no words needed to convey his simple message. He simply gazed into his lord’s eyes, empathy and understanding combined into a soothing mist of affection that relaxed the king’s tense muscles. Those spring-clear eyes seemed to moisten at the feelings that flooded unbridled through the broad chest, but they were not resisting. Thranduil’s hands clenched and squeezed Galion’s fingers before dropping to his sides, leaving his body unguarded and open to Galion’s care. The butler smiled comfortingly, leaning forward to graze the king’s lips with a butterfly kiss before pulling back to begin his work. 

The difficult clasps of Thranduil’s stately robes were no hindrance to Galion, who had helped his king remove them even before he entertained thoughts of what lay beneath. His fingers worked in efficient fashion as one by one the clasps were released and pushed aside, revealing the thin silver shirt within. One last metallic click and the outer robe slid to the floor, pooling about the king’s feet. Galion glanced up at Thranduil’s eyes – his expression was slightly curious, slightly anticipatory, but calm and open nonetheless. The butler continued.

Thranduil raised his arms to allow the removal of his shirt; Galion had to stand on his toes to pull it free. It too joined the pile on the floor. At this point the king’s torso was exposed to the cool chamber air, though Galion felt nothing but heat radiating from the alabaster skin. His hand rose as if with a mind of its own; his long fingers hovered over the expanse of the strong breast that lifted and fell with each slow breath. It was written in many mortal books that elves did not scar and that their skin healed to the previous state of inexplicable perfection; but this was not true. His king had many scars, and though they were faint, they were existent. If one took more than a short glance they would see the way they stretched across his abdomen; they would see the long, thin scar that ran from axillae to his sternal border; they would see the slight depression on his hip where he had been bitten by one of Ungoliant’s spawn. They would see the slight discoloration on his lateral ribs, where dragon fire hotter than any other heat had seared the skin like a steak. They would see the almost invisible x’s lined across his posterior shoulders, where he had been struck not once, not twice, but thrice with arrows from an orc’s bow. And, if they looked hard enough (which none ever had the courage to attempt), they could see the scarring of his soul that bled into the soft blue of his eyes. Not all hurts had drawn blood, but they had all left a mark. 

Galion traced those scars, pausing only slightly as he felt the king’s breath catch in his breast. He allowed time for adjustment as was needed; no matter how long Thranduil had been recovering from those wounds, the memories would always be fresh in his mind. Not even a king with thousands of years of battle-hardened experience could dismiss the horrors of the Dark Lord. 

He leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on the king’s collarbone, letting the warmth of his lips seep into the ancient skin. Thranduil’s breathing changed, coming quicker, deeper. Galion smiled against his lover’s sternum, drawing his lips down and placing another kiss at the base. His hands settled on the strong hipbones, thumbs pressing into the cotton fabric of his leggings. One more kiss above the king’s umbilicus, one below, and a last one just at the hem of his trousers. He let him mouth linger for a second longer, tasting the salty-sweetness of a barely perceptible sheen of sweat. 

Galion knelt on the floor then, moving his fingers to work at the laces of Thranduil’s leggings. A short moment later saw them undone and his hands guiding the loose fabric to the ground, his eyes turned upward to the one he loved. Thranduil gazed down at him, the fears and darkness of his sorrows lingering now only at the corners of his eyes, chased away by the need of his body. His lips were pursed, his breath ghosted out in quiet hisses that caressed the golden hair curtaining his angular features. His hands still hung compliant at his sides, though the elegant fingers were crushed into fists that drained the blood from his flesh. He was a beautiful sight, a work of the Valar, a gift of creation. He was as strong as a lion, yet cloaked in the grief of a thousand deaths. He was an epitaph of perfection, beautiful and deadly and sorrowful; and he was real, he was alive. And Galion would make him whole. 

Thranduil lifted his legs one by one as Galion removed the leggings and boots. A moment later he was naked and completely vulnerable, no walls left to guard his flesh or soul. Galion stood and swept him into an embrace, willing the last threads of tension from the kingly body. The confirmation of Thranduil’s readiness was evident with the press of something hot and rigid against his belly; Galion sighed, pleased, and quickly removed his own garments before pushing Thranduil back against the bed. 

Thranduil was broader and taller, if only by a hand, than the slighter butler who had lifted a sword a total of a dozen times in his life. Yet it mattered not when they were curled in bed, face to face, body pressed against body. Galion melded his frame against the king’s, pushing him down and back against the pillows. His mouth sought out the sweet skin scented with earth, pressing heated kisses against the king’s exposed neck. Thranduil hissed out a breath, chest heaving to replace the oxygen that was forced from his lungs at the spark of passion that ignited between them. His hands reached up and scratched at the butler’s back, aiming for purchase, pulling him closer. Galion willingly complied, pressing more searing kisses against the throbbing pulse in his lord’s throat. Down he went, kissing, nipping, tasting the hollow where the king’s collarbones converged, his tongue dipping and swirling against taunt skin. Thranduil’s breaths were wordless, but his voice could no longer be held within confines. He moaned as Galion moved lower and kissed a trail across his breast before taking one flushed nipple between his lips, grazing the tender flesh with sharp teeth; Thranduil’s breathed choked in his throat, his back arched and thrust his chest into the waiting heat. 

Breath panted from the king’s lips as Galion teased the nub with his tongue. A slender thigh pressed gently yet insistently between his legs; he spread them willingly, gaining purchase on the bedsheets with his heels. The king could not contain the grunt of lust that pushed against his lips as an expert hand wrapped around his length, squeezing, milking, stroking him to something beyond hardness, beyond control. Yes, this was not his moment to control; it was Galion’s. 

It was almost too easy to submit. 

“Galion…” Words could no longer be withheld. The name was like a plea to the butler’s ears as he pressed slow kisses to the king’s belly, tracing the ridges and mounds of muscle with his quickening breath. His hand twitched along with the hard flesh within it, his fingers writhed and twisted on that glorious instrument that had so often been his pleasurable downfall. Even now he felt the faintness, the anticipation that bubbled at the edge of his consciousness; the pure, animal want that whispered its temptations in his ear. But no, it was not his time. This was for his king, for the one he loved more than the stars. Thranduil needed the release this time, and Galion had to grant it to him. 

“Thranduil… my beloved king…” Galion panted back, straightening himself against his lover’s body and bringing their faces together. He closed his lips over the pursed lips of the king, swallowing his breath and moans as he would the sweetest delicacy. Thranduil keened low in his throat as they shared the kiss, as Galion claimed his mouth with his talented tongue and stroked his cock heavily. The moisture was building between them, slicking their bodies; the heat was indescribable, searing their skin where it touched. Thranduil’s hips moved at a rhythm all their own while his hands buried into Galion’s earthen hair, twisting the locks into curls around his fingers and smashing their mouths together. Teeth clicked as tongues fought, breath was lost in tumultuous passion; a loud crack of thunder shook the air about them, and all they heard was the urgency of each other’s heartbeats.

They pulled back together, gasping for breath, pupils dilated with lust as the euphoria grew. The intensity of Thranduil’s gaze bit like a sword into Galion’s stomach, stalling him if only for a moment; oh, how he loved the brutality of that passion, the way it moved him. If he was to be slain by adoration, then let it be in Thranduil’s arms!

Thranduil’s hips thrust forward with powerful urgency, his fingers grasped the bedclothes at his sides. “Galion… please…” he bit out hoarsely, voice strained by the tension of passion. Those words had once been painful to even think of uttering, but Thranduil had discarded his carefully constructed barriers and placed all trust in his lover. “Please.”

This was a request that Galion would not ignore. He gave the king’s length one more lingering stroke before leaning back, eyes glancing over to the drawer in the bedside table. Hundreds of years, one universal hiding spot… it was normally Thranduil who did the rummaging, but Galion had a bit of practice under his belt. His arm reached out, fingers grasping – only to be caught by the strong hand of his king, the grip so tight and full of need that Galion’s breath hissed past his clenched teeth. 

“I want it. I want to feel…” The king’s eyes retained a shred of the earlier pain, a shadow creeping from within to obscure the portals of his fëa. Galion’s heart wrenched at the sight and at the sudden shard of pain that lanced through his soul; but he understood. If the king needed this, then so did he. 

“Are you sure?” Galion whispered, guiding Thranduil’s hand to his cheek. He pressed his cheekbone into the roughened palm, a palm that had held mithril swords and directed the strokes that sent thousands to their death. And yet what he felt from that touch was comfort and safety, tenderness and love; those hands had set him free after thousands of years of fear and insecurity. 

Thranduil closed his eyes, his throat rising and falling with a condemning swallow. “Yes. I need the pain.” His lids snapped open, eyes clear and focused, needing, pleading. “I need you. Please.” 

Confident hands took hold of Thranduil’s thighs, spreading them wider. They did not resist. Galion slipped between them, heat rising in his throat and clouding his vision as he beheld the sight that was his king. Majestic and powerful in all ways, he was, and Galion was never prepared for the onslaught of pure adoration that surged through his veins at the picture before him. He kept Thranduil’s eyes pinned with his own as he slipped his fingers between his own lips – though Thranduil wished for the pain, he would not take the chance of injuring him. Galion was often the one who did the “receiving”, per se, and knew that the king was less than prepared, at least in the physical aspect. He coated his own digits in saliva before retracting his hand, licking the salty taste from his lips as his eyes narrowed in lust. The action had the same effect on the king; he pressed his spine into the mattress, hips arching, a low keen in his throat. Desperate, unbridled need surged across his skin. 

Breath fled Galion’s lungs as he wrapped his fingers around his own erection, having neglected himself up until that moment. He was hard and aching and weeping; he smeared the pre-cum from the tip of his length and used it in conjunction with his own saliva, giving himself a few long and firm strokes. He nearly groaned with the mere pressure of his own hand. 

When he was certain of his preparation he leaned forward, placing his left hand on the king’s right thigh, his right hand on Thranduil’s left hip. He lined himself up with the king’s entrance, feeling the jump and tremble of sensitive muscle against his tip; his fingers tightened upon the pale skin. He kept his eyes locked with Thranduil’s starlit gaze, unveiling his emotions, his need, his lust. The intensity was reciprocated; Thranduil was ready. The king’s hands knitted into the thick locks of Galion’s hair, gently urging him to proceed. Galion let the corners of his lips drift upward in a loving smile – and then he thrust forward.

It took only a second to bury himself in that tight, intoxicating heat. He gasped out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding; the king did the same, his mouth gaping as he panted though the pain and fullness. Galion felt those strong fingers tighten in his hair, grasping for something material. He did not mind the slight sting of his scalp, for he knew the king felt a much stronger pain. He kept himself still for a moment, allowing time for adjustment of the tight muscle, though all his overheated body wanted was to plough into the king’s passage like a stag in rut. Especially when the king’s muscles contracted, tightening the passage around his length, choking, condemning him… he was lost in a red haze. A moan escaped his lips as the skin of his chest and neck flushed with passion; he bent down and took the king’s left nipple between his lips, instead exerting his energy on that rosy bud instead. 

A wanton moan from Thranduil’s lips and the flexing of his hips was all the permission that Galion needed. Perfect teeth tugged at the king’s nipple as slender hips pulled back, withdrawing all but the head of his erection; and with a soft growl he thrust forward, flesh striking against flesh like the pounding of a drum. Both elves shuddered with the intensity of it, shivered with the sensation of desire and love quickly sparking into a devouring fire of carnal energy. Galion released the king’s breast and brought his hands up, taking Thranduil’s palms against his own and threading their fingers together amongst the sheets. He moaned as he pulled back once again, paused, and thrust forward; the king gasped below him, belly heaving with the effort of keeping his breath. Soon a rhythm was set, and both elves worked as one, a living and breathing work of art. Galion did not know where his skin ended and where the king’s began.

“A-ai!” the unbidden exclamation escaped through Thranduil’s lips as Galion angled his hips. The king had taught him well in this art, and there was nothing he desired more than to see Thranduil undone by pleasure. Again and again he struck against the firm bundle of nerves alongside the king’s passage, throwing his weight into the muscles of his rear and thighs. He gasped for air as he was milked by the squeeze of Thranduil’s passage, the stinging friction already causing a swirling pressure to build in his abdomen. With it he rode, embracing it, stoking it, letting its tickling tendrils unfurl and writhe at the edges of his control. He felt the heat rising, felt his sac tightening. He bit his lip to control himself – the king’s pleasure must come first. 

But Thranduil was not far behind. His hips moved in abandon now, his eyes had lost their focus and now gazed at an untold world, his thighs and calves trembled from where they scraped against Galion’s sides. The skin of his belly was slick from sweat as it slid against his lover’s, his arms strained against the mattress as Galion held his hands. Swollen and dry were his lips from the constant rush of air, in, out, in out – was he even still breathing? It felt as if all the air had been stolen from the chamber, and instead he was filled with Galion’s scent, with his love and fervor and pure heat. Yet his heart was still beating, and wildly, like a rabbit racing against a fox. He felt it beating against his ribs, felt the blood rushing through his arteries and flushing his skin, filling his straining erection until it was as hard as granite. With each thrust Galion’s abdomen pressed against him, and his lover’s cock smashed against his hidden pleasure center. The intensity of it was like a deep ocean wave, pulling him down, drowning him, blinding him. Another stroke caused his abdominal muscles to spasm and contract – his legs shook. He barely noticed when Galion released one of his palms, but when that hand snaked between their bodies and once again curled around his length – he was lost. 

Time froze, and the heat imploded. Thranduil’s back arched and his legs squeezed hard around the butler, his throat convulsed as with a keening voice he cried, “Galion!” And with a violent shudder he spilled his seed upon his lover’s hand, mind lost in the swirling tide of ecstasy. 

The king’s climax brought forth Galion’s own release, the squeeze of the hot passage too much for the slighter elf to bear. He spurted his own seed just as Thranduil’s coated his fingers and slicked their bellies, steaming and sticky. A strangled cry pushed past his lips, syllables molding together to form the only name he had ever truly cared to say. “Thranduil!” 

And then he collapsed, molding his body against his king’s as they struggled to catch their breath. The warmth curled around them both like a blanket, lulling and comforting them, whispering its love and devotion and eternity. Both elves said not a word, but let the post-climax euphoria lull them into a trance-like slumber. 

It was minutes later before Galion moved, placing a soft kiss to the king’s parted lips. The king’s mouth twitched beneath his own; when he pulled back a small smile graced the regal features. Galion’s heart filled with a golden light; he smiled back, smoothing Thranduil’s wheaten hair away from his forehead. Then he rose and left the bed, retrieving two towels from a wash basin. Quickly he cleaned himself and the king, inconspicuously checking Thranduil’s bottom to make certain that the king had not bled; but Thranduil was strong, and Galion had been gentle enough. When finished he tossed the towels to the floor, then climbed atop the mattress and slid against the king. He pulled a blanket around their bodies for comfort. 

“Hîr vuin, my beloved king. My heart,” Galion soothed, taking Thranduil’s hand in his own. The king’s fingers closed strongly around his palm, squeezing him reassuringly. “I feel as if I will never say this enough, not for the years I kept it hidden – but,” he paused, his voice becoming strained, choked with emotion. He felt fingers lift his chin; Thranduil’s eyes were clear again, as clear as the spring that bubbled in the far wall of his bedroom. The clarity of those blue orbs sent a strange thrill through the butler; it was as if he was hit by a wave of both bliss and grief. An image of the sea flit through his mind like an omen – he shivered and shook it away, locking it in the confines of his thoughts, but the picture left him weak. The memory of what Thranduil had said earlier rang like damnation in his head. _I have seen what it does to those who evade it, I have seen the way they fade and distance themselves from the world._

_I will never leave you, my king._

“I love you, Thranduil.” His voice broke, and tears unbidden escaped from the corners of his eyes. He turned his head away, hating that he had to break at such an intimate moment – but Thranduil was there to comfort him. The king understood the sorrow. He understood the confusion. Though they were two drastically different souls, they had witnessed much of the same events throughout history. They had been born in the same era, had seen slaughter and survived kinslaying, had seen the great creations of Morgoth covering the sky in fire. Galion had been there to comfort Thranduil upon Oropher’s death; and he had been at his king’s side when Thranduil’s mother left for the Havens. Both had wept with joy at the birth of Legolas, and both had drowned in sorrow at the queen’s passing. Thranduil may have taken his lover’s loyalty for granted once upon a time, but no longer did he leave Galion to muse alone in the shadows. Galion loved Thranduil; and Thranduil loved Galion. 

“Gin melin, Galion. I choose you now, and I choose you for life, as long as the world will see breath in my chest.” He wrapped his arms around the butler and pulled him close, the sudden cold sting of sorrow not lost upon his naked skin. “I am sorry I was blind for so long.”

“It matters not. I would have waited centuries more, even with no end in sight. I would have waited for you.” Galion pressed his face into the crook of Thranduil’s neck. It was as if he was the one that had needed the comfort all long; had he? It seemed that thousands of years wore heavy on both a king and a servant, no matter how hard they strove to forget the past. 

“Yet I would have been lost if I had not found myself in you.” The king’s arms tightened around Galion’s shoulders, his lips rested comfortingly on his forehead. Silence ensued, and the sound of rain pattering across the window panes whispered like moth’s breath across the dim chamber. The storm still roiled outside – and within their hearts.

Galion’s tears slowed and ceased, and the steady rise and fall of his lover’s chest lulled him into a fuzzy fatigue. His muscles grew lax and he let his body melt into the king’s, into the mattress, into the quiet air of the underground room. No matter what the world brought them, be it death and sorrow or life and light, he would remain here at his lord’s side. The sands of time were flowing and they could not be stopped; thousands of years had passed and seen the shadow vanquished. Now the path lay open, but Thranduil had been right; their world was fading. The Eldar were drifting into legend. The only magic in these woods would soon be sprawled as script in the books of mortals. Galion could understand the king’s melancholy at this realization. The forests of Middle Earth had borne them and protected them, had been their cradle and bosom for the course of a thousand lifetimes; but a place unknown was calling, and the elves could not resist. They would leave or be swallowed by the past. The future was not theirs. 

“I remember now.” 

Galion startled, pulling himself from the mist of his mind. His eyes rose and met the king’s, barely perceptible in the dimness. The candles had long since burnt out. 

“Thranduil?” His voice was laced with curiosity and confusion. 

The king smiled graciously, placing a kiss on Galion’s nose. “The sound of Legolas’ laughter. The music of his voice; you brought it back to me.”

Galion sighed, resting his cheek against the king’s broad chest. The heartbeat was strong and steady within, just as it had been for three ages. “And what does it sound like, my king?”

A pause, fingers sifting through his hair, a kiss upon his ear. He felt the amber warmth emanate from his lover’s fëa, and suddenly he was no longer unhappy. The words were like a freeing breath of spring as they whispered clearly across his consciousness. 

“It sounds like yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for reading through my first new story in ages! I've been so busy, and in truth wasn't sure I'd write again. But I'm so glad I did. I just can't give up on this beautiful pairing! If anyone has any questions or comments, please feel free to leave them! Hope you guys enjoyed it and felt as much emotion as I did while writing it.


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